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I wonder how our princely father ’scaped, Or whether he be ’scaped away or no From Clifford’s and Northumberland’s pursuit: Had he been ta’en, we should have heard the news; Had he been slain, we should have heard the news; Or had he ’scaped, methinks we should have heard The happy tidings of his good escape. How fares my brother? why is he so sad?
I wonder how our royal father escaped, Or whether he escaped at all From Clifford’s and Northumberland’s chase: If he’d been caught, we would have heard the news; If he’d been killed, we would have heard the news; Or if he escaped, I think we would have heard The good news of his safe escape. How is my brother? Why is he so sad?
I cannot joy, until I be resolved Where our right valiant father is become. I saw him in the battle range about; And watch’d him how he singled Clifford forth. Methought he bore him in the thickest troop As doth a lion in a herd of neat; Or as a bear, encompass’d round with dogs, Who having pinch’d a few and made them cry, The rest stand all aloof, and bark at him. So fared our father with his enemies; So fled his enemies my warlike father: Methinks, ’tis prize enough to be his son. See how the morning opes her golden gates, And takes her farewell of the glorious sun! How well resembles it the prime of youth, Trimm’d like a younker prancing to his love!
I can’t be happy until I know Where our brave father has gone. I saw him in the battle moving around; And I watched how he singled out Clifford. I thought he fought through the thickest crowd Like a lion among a herd of cattle; Or like a bear, surrounded by dogs, Who, after biting a few and making them cry, The rest stand back and bark at him. That’s how our father faced his enemies; That’s how his enemies fled from my warlike father: I think it’s an honor just to be his son. Look how the morning opens her golden gates, And says goodbye to the glorious sun! How much it’s like the prime of youth, Bright and fresh like a young man rushing to his love!
Dazzle mine eyes, or do I see three suns?
Am I seeing things, or are there really three suns?
Three glorious suns, each one a perfect sun; Not separated with the racking clouds, But sever’d in a pale clear-shining sky. See, see! they join, embrace, and seem to kiss, As if they vow’d some league inviolable: Now are they but one lamp, one light, one sun. In this the heaven figures some event.
Three glorious suns, each one a perfect sun; Not hidden behind the clouds, But separated in a clear, bright sky. Look, look! They come together, embrace, and seem to kiss, As if they swore an unbreakable bond: Now they’re just one light, one sun. This somehow signifies some event in the heavens.
’Tis wondrous strange, the like yet never heard of. I think it cites us, brother, to the field, That we, the sons of brave Plantagenet, Each one already blazing by our meeds, Should notwithstanding join our lights together And over-shine the earth as this the world. Whate’er it bodes, henceforward will I bear Upon my target three fair-shining suns.
This is incredibly strange, I’ve never heard of anything like it. I think it’s calling us, brother, to the battlefield, That we, the sons of brave Plantagenet, Already shining by our own deeds, Should still join our lights together And shine over the earth just like this light shines over the world. Whatever it means, from now on I will carry Three shining suns on my shield.
Nay, bear three daughters: by your leave I speak it, You love the breeder better than the male.
No, carry three daughters: with all due respect, I say it, You love the mother more than the father.
But what art thou, whose heavy looks foretell Some dreadful story hanging on thy tongue?
But who are you, whose sad look tells That you’ve got some terrible news to share?
Ah, one that was a woful looker-on When as the noble Duke of York was slain, Your princely father and my loving lord!
Ah, I’m the one who sadly watched When the noble Duke of York was killed, Your royal father and my dear lord!
O, speak no more, for I have heard too much.
Oh, don’t say any more, I’ve heard enough.
Say how he died, for I will hear it all.
Tell us how he died, I want to hear everything.
Environed he was with many foes, And stood against them, as the hope of Troy Against the Greeks that would have enter’d Troy. But Hercules himself must yield to odds; And many strokes, though with a little axe, Hew down and fell the hardest-timber’d oak. By many hands your father was subdued; But only slaughter’d by the ireful arm Of unrelenting Clifford and the queen, Who crown’d the gracious duke in high despite, Laugh’d in his face; and when with grief he wept, The ruthless queen gave him to dry his cheeks A napkin steeped in the harmless blood Of sweet young Rutland, by rough Clifford slain: And after many scorns, many foul taunts, They took his head, and on the gates of York They set the same; and there it doth remain, The saddest spectacle that e’er I view’d.
He was surrounded by many enemies, And stood against them like the hope of Troy Standing against the Greeks trying to enter Troy. But even Hercules has to give in to overwhelming odds; And many blows, even with a small axe, Can chop down the hardest oak. Your father was overpowered by many hands; But only killed by the furious arm Of unyielding Clifford and the queen, Who crowned the noble duke in high contempt, Laughed in his face; and when he wept with grief, The ruthless queen gave him, to dry his tears, A napkin soaked in the innocent blood Of sweet young Rutland, killed by fierce Clifford: And after many insults, many cruel taunts, They took his head and hung it on the gates of York, Where it remains to this day, The saddest sight I’ve ever seen.
Sweet Duke of York, our prop to lean upon, Now thou art gone, we have no staff, no stay. O Clifford, boisterous Clifford! thou hast slain The flower of Europe for his chivalry; And treacherously hast thou vanquish’d him, For hand to hand he would have vanquish’d thee. Now my soul’s palace is become a prison: Ah, would she break from hence, that this my body Might in the ground be closed up in rest! For never henceforth shall I joy again, Never, O never shall I see more joy!
Sweet Duke of York, our support and strength, Now that you’re gone, we have no support, no strength. Oh Clifford, violent Clifford! You’ve killed The finest knight in Europe for his honor; And treacherously you’ve beaten him, For if it had been a fair fight, he would have beaten you. Now my soul’s palace has become a prison: Ah, I wish it could escape, so that this body Could rest in the ground in peace! For I’ll never find joy again, Never, oh never will I know happiness again!
I cannot weep; for all my body’s moisture Scarce serves to quench my furnace-burning heart: Nor can my tongue unload my heart’s great burthen; For selfsame wind that I should speak withal Is kindling coals that fires all my breast, And burns me up with flames that tears would quench. To weep is to make less the depth of grief: Tears then for babes; blows and revenge for me Richard, I bear thy name; I’ll venge thy death, Or die renowned by attempting it.
I can’t cry; my body has so little moisture That it hardly does anything to cool my burning heart: And my tongue can’t release the weight of my heart’s sorrow; The very same breath I would use to speak Is fueling the flames that burn inside me, And it burns me up with fire that tears would put out. Crying would only make the pain feel less deep: Tears are for children; I want revenge, not tears Richard, I carry your name; I’ll avenge your death, Or die honored by trying to do so.
His name that valiant duke hath left with thee; His dukedom and his chair with me is left.
The name of that brave duke has been left to you; His title and his seat have been passed on to me.
Nay, if thou be that princely eagle’s bird, Show thy descent by gazing ’gainst the sun: For chair and dukedom, throne and kingdom say; Either that is thine, or else thou wert not his.
No, if you’re truly that noble eagle’s offspring, Prove it by looking up at the sun: Because the title and land, throne and kingdom say: Either they are yours, or else you were never his.
How now, fair lords! What fare? what news abroad?
How are things, my lords? What’s the news out there?
Great Lord of Warwick, if we should recount Our baleful news, and at each word’s deliverance Stab poniards in our flesh till all were told, The words would add more anguish than the wounds. O valiant lord, the Duke of York is slain!
Great Lord Warwick, if we had to tell you All the bad news, and stabbed ourselves with daggers Every time we spoke a word until we were done, The words would hurt us more than the wounds. Oh brave lord, the Duke of York has been killed!
O Warwick, Warwick! that Plantagenet, Which held three dearly as his soul’s redemption, Is by the stern Lord Clifford done to death.
Oh Warwick, Warwick! That Plantagenet, Who held three things dear as his soul’s salvation, Has been killed by the harsh Lord Clifford.
Ten days ago I drown’d these news in tears; And now, to add more measure to your woes, I come to tell you things sith then befall’n. After the bloody fray at Wakefield fought, Where your brave father breathed his latest gasp, Tidings, as swiftly as the posts could run, Were brought me of your loss and his depart. I, then in London keeper of the king, Muster’d my soldiers, gather’d flocks of friends, And very well appointed, as I thought, March’d toward Saint Alban’s to intercept the queen, Bearing the king in my behalf along; For by my scouts I was advertised That she was coming with a full intent To dash our late decree in parliament Touching King Henry’s oath and your succession. Short tale to make, we at Saint Alban’s met Our battles join’d, and both sides fiercely fought: But whether ’twas the coldness of the king, Who look’d full gently on his warlike queen, That robb’d my soldiers of their heated spleen; Or whether ’twas report of her success; Or more than common fear of Clifford’s rigour, Who thunders to his captives blood and death, I cannot judge: but to conclude with truth, Their weapons like to lightning came and went; Our soldiers’, like the night-owl’s lazy flight, Or like an idle thresher with a flail, Fell gently down, as if they struck their friends. I cheer’d them up with justice of our cause, With promise of high pay and great rewards: But all in vain; they had no heart to fight, And we in them no hope to win the day; So that we fled; the king unto the queen; Lord George your brother, Norfolk and myself, In haste, post-haste, are come to join with you: For in the marches here we heard you were, Making another head to fight again.
Ten days ago I cried over this news; And now, to add to your grief, I’m here to tell you more things that have happened since then. After the bloody battle at Wakefield, Where your brave father took his last breath, As soon as the news reached me, I was told of your loss and his death. I, then in London as keeper of the king, Gathered my soldiers, called up friends, And, thinking we were ready, marched toward Saint Alban’s To stop the queen from coming, Taking the king with me on my behalf; For my scouts had told me That she was coming to overturn our recent decision in parliament About King Henry’s oath and your succession. To cut a long story short, we met at Saint Alban’s And both sides fought fiercely: But whether it was the king’s indifference, Who looked so gently at his warlike queen, That took the fighting spirit from my soldiers; Or whether it was news of her success; Or a greater fear of Clifford’s cruelty, Who brings nothing but blood and death to his captives, I can’t say: but to tell the truth, Their weapons struck with the speed of lightning, While ours fell slowly, like a tired night-owl, Or like a lazy farmer with a threshing flail, As if they were hitting their own friends. I tried to lift their spirits with promises of justice, High pay, and great rewards: But it was all in vain; they had no will to fight, And we had no hope of winning that day; So we fled; the king went to the queen; Your brother George, Norfolk, and I, We quickly made our way here to join you: Because we heard you were gathering forces again.
Where is the Duke of Norfolk, gentle Warwick? And when came George from Burgundy to England?
Where is the Duke of Norfolk, good Warwick? And when did George return from Burgundy to England?
Some six miles off the duke is with the soldiers; And for your brother, he was lately sent From your kind aunt, Duchess of Burgundy, With aid of soldiers to this needful war.
The duke is about six miles away with the soldiers; And your brother, he was recently sent By your aunt, the Duchess of Burgundy, With soldiers to help in this necessary war.
’Twas odds, belike, when valiant Warwick fled: Oft have I heard his praises in pursuit, But ne’er till now his scandal of retire.
It was probably a bad sign when brave Warwick fled: I’ve often heard his praises in pursuit, But never until now have I heard of him retreating.
Nor now my scandal, Richard, dost thou hear; For thou shalt know this strong right hand of mine Can pluck the diadem from faint Henry’s head, And wring the awful sceptre from his fist, Were he as famous and as bold in war As he is famed for mildness, peace, and prayer.
You won’t hear any scandal from me, Richard; For you’ll see that this strong right hand of mine Can take the crown from weak Henry’s head, And snatch the powerful scepter from his hand, Even if he’s known for being peaceful, mild, and prayerful.
I know it well, Lord Warwick; blame me not: ’Tis love I bear thy glories makes me speak. But in this troublous time what’s to be done? Shall we go throw away our coats of steel, And wrap our bodies in black mourning gowns, Numbering our Ave-Maries with our beads? Or shall we on the helmets of our foes Tell our devotion with revengeful arms? If for the last, say ay, and to it, lords.
I know that, Lord Warwick; don’t blame me: It’s my love for your victories that makes me speak. But in these troubled times, what should we do? Should we give up our armor, And wrap ourselves in black mourning clothes, Counting our prayers with our rosaries? Or should we put our devotion into action with revengeful arms? If we’re to do the latter, say yes, and let’s go for it, lords.
Why, therefore Warwick came to seek you out; And therefore comes my brother Montague. Attend me, lords. The proud insulting queen, With Clifford and the haught Northumberland, And of their feather many more proud birds, Have wrought the easy-melting king like wax. He swore consent to your succession, His oath enrolled in the parliament; And now to London all the crew are gone, To frustrate both his oath and what beside May make against the house of Lancaster. Their power, I think, is thirty thousand strong: Now, if the help of Norfolk and myself, With all the friends that thou, brave Earl of March, Amongst the loving Welshmen canst procure, Will but amount to five and twenty thousand, Why, Via! to London will we march amain, And once again bestride our foaming steeds, And once again cry ’Charge upon our foes!’ But never once again turn back and fly.
That’s why I came to find you; And why my brother Montague is here. Listen to me, lords. The proud, insulting queen, With Clifford and the arrogant Northumberland, And many other powerful supporters, Have controlled the weak king like wax. He swore to support your succession, And his oath was recorded in parliament; And now they’ve all gone to London, To break both his oath and everything else That might stand against the House of Lancaster. Their army, I think, is thirty thousand strong: Now, if Norfolk and I, along with all the friends You, brave Earl of March, can gather among the Welsh, Can bring together twenty-five thousand, Then let’s march on London without hesitation, And once again ride our foaming steeds, And again shout ’Charge against our enemies!’ But never again turn back and flee.
Ay, now methinks I hear great Warwick speak: Ne’er may he live to see a sunshine day, That cries ’Retire,’ if Warwick bid him stay.
Yes, now I think I hear great Warwick speaking: May he never live to see a sunny day, Who says ‘Retreat’ if Warwick tells him to stay.
Lord Warwick, on thy shoulder will I lean; And when thou fail’st--as God forbid the hour!-- Must Edward fall, which peril heaven forfend!
Lord Warwick, I will stand with you; And if you fail—God forbid that time!— Then Edward must fall, and heaven protect us from that!
No longer Earl of March, but Duke of York: The next degree is England’s royal throne; For King of England shalt thou be proclaim’d In every borough as we pass along; And he that throws not up his cap for joy Shall for the fault make forfeit of his head. King Edward, valiant Richard, Montague, Stay we no longer, dreaming of renown, But sound the trumpets, and about our task.
No longer Earl of March, but Duke of York: You’re now one step away from England’s throne; Soon, you’ll be crowned King of England In every town we pass through; And anyone who doesn’t cheer or throw up their cap Will lose their head for the mistake. King Edward, brave Richard, Montague, Let’s stop wasting time dreaming of glory, But sound the trumpets and get to work.
Then, Clifford, were thy heart as hard as steel, As thou hast shown it flinty by thy deeds, I come to pierce it, or to give thee mine.
Then, Clifford, if your heart were as hard as steel, As your actions have shown, I’m here to pierce it, or let you take mine.
Then strike up drums: God and Saint George for us!
Then beat the drums: God and Saint George be with us!
How now! what news?
What’s going on? What’s the news?
The Duke of Norfolk sends you word by me, The queen is coming with a puissant host; And craves your company for speedy counsel.
The Duke of Norfolk sends word that The queen is coming with a strong army; And asks for your advice and help right away.
Why then it sorts, brave warriors, let’s away.
Well then, it’s settled, brave warriors, let’s go.